


Waves

by RuGrimm



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: And Byleth Gives Him One, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cute, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fluff and Angst, Hot, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, Kissing, Mild Hurt/Comfort, References to Depression, Schizophrenia, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuGrimm/pseuds/RuGrimm
Summary: Dimitri spends the night awake and planning the army's next steps after Derdriu's liberation. Byleth, always concerned for her students, checks in on him... *Commission for Morgan & Byleth Enthusiast*Mini-Excerpt:“Byleth…” Dimitri’s baritone voice is a hushed whisper against her mouth, a promise--a contract with no words but mutually signed.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgan_and_Byleth_Enthusiast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_and_Byleth_Enthusiast/gifts).



The last lantern dims. Its glass, licked black by fire, is crusted in charred moth wings, and when a pale hand retreats from the knob on the side, the lantern shakes the wings loose like ancient samara seeds. Booted feet crush them upon retreat. 

Tents scattered across the Derdriu landscape each begin to darken for the night. Crickets gather for the midnight symphony, strings tuning to prepare the serenade for a lunar god hiding in a kingdom beyond a black barrier of clouds. With a sigh, the wind rattles the heavy limbs of trees to provide percussion, and the brazen howl of the wolf bellows to signify with resounding finality the end of day. 

Few care to witness the musical production nature offers, most turned in to their makeshift pallets to prepare for the march at dawn. Even in the one tent--the large tent at the end of the rows--that flickers with inward light, its sole inhabitant remains focused on a recreation of Fodlan. 

The map stretches across the wide table. Under his left hand, his notes. The flame of a lone candle near the throat of Fodlan laps at the last dredges of wax, wavering when the breeze stirs the tent flaps and brushes by Dimitri, unaware of the strings that have come undone to allow the flaps their freedom. 

The prince watches the ink build up on the paper. It swallows his words and sinks through the parchment into the table below. His fingers are stained black as he holds the tip of the quill firm and steady; a heavy drop gathers in the space between his forefinger and the cuticle. 

_“How many people are going to die for you?”_

_“How many more will join us?”_

_“When will you be satisfied?”_

The ink in the quill runs dry quickly, and the words that could have been solidify like a black tumor on the top of his finger. 

_“When will you avenge us?”_

_“Why do you hesitate?”_

“Stop. I will--I will avenge you. I just need more time,” he rasps, head bowing to Fodlan. “Please. I will do my best to appease you--all of you.” 

_“We are waiting, Dimitri.”_

_“We are watching, Dimitri.”_

“Dimitri.”

The tent entrance lifts in the corner of his vision, and Dimitri lifts his head just enough to see Byleth step inside. There’s a shift in the air when she enters, palpable and rousing. 

“Professor..?” he acknowledges her as he sets down his quill and reaches for the cloth to his right, wiping away at his hand with a silent question dangling in the space between them. He's dressed in a white tunic and black riding pants, his left sleeve stained as black as his notepad. The fabric hangs on broad shoulders loosely, but even the light cotton doesn't detract from the heaviness he carries like a second cloak.

“It’s late.” She says it less like observation and more like a fact. Her green gaze falls on the towel over his hand. There’s an order somewhere in her tone, and he can only hear it because he knows her. He knows her like a scar on his body. Every time he looks, every time he moves, she’s there. 

He lets the cloth sit in his stilled hands and allows his gaze to wander to the stain his touch has left behind. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

“You should be resting,” she says, walking to the table where black has all but eaten away at Nuvelle. She takes his notes--what is left of them--and places them on the far table laden with coded maps and messages. 

And he lets her. He watches her, dressed down for the night, wearing naught but black cotton in place of dented steel and iron, watches her like he has watched her every day he's known her--until she wasn't there anymore... The Sword of the Creator, still remains at her side, however; she is never long without it. Almost as if sensing its presence, Adreadbhar glows brighter in the corner of the tent, propped against the table where Byleth has placed his notes. 

Shaking his head, he lets the fringes of blonde bangs hang over his eye. “I couldn’t sleep. I’d rather do something to the benefit of the living then sit in the company of ghosts.” It’s what he tells himself every night. This is what he does: pushes people away with excuses and guilt. It’s maladaptive behavior designed for damage control, but every lie he tells himself-- _this is okay;_ **_no_ ** _this is right; this is for the safety_ **_no_ ** _of every_ **_no_ ** _one; I deserve this;_ **_nonono_ ** _I deserve to_ **_no_ ** _\--_ is another cloth rag stuffed into the gaping hull of a sinking ship torn asunder by the glacier that’s been steadily growing inside him. He’s clinging to the ice to stay afloat, even as his body freezes over. 

Byleth looks at him; he can feel it when she does. And he feels small under her gaze. She’s judging him, soaking in everything left of him. He never knows what goes on behind the vaultish doors of her mind; he doubts anyone could. “A tired king benefits no one…” She’s been the one picking up the boards he’s leaving behind, trying desperately to nail shut the holes he’s been too ignorant to notice or too distracted to care about. She tries to mitigate the damage, but they both must know this ship will sink. 

“I am not a king yet.” Will he ever be? What fate awaits him in Merceus? In Enbarr? He swears he can hear Edelgard’s laughter amongst the voices. He can’t rest until he silences them. “Every moment I waste here is another life lost, another chance for _that_ _woman_ to turn the tides of war against us. I cannot rest while she still breathes… And yet--”

Looking up, Dimitri’s voice stalls when he sees the back of the tense figure of his teacher standing there. Are her shoulders...shaking? The words he might have spoken freeze in his throat. 

“Dimitri...”--her voice is strained with an emotion he is certain neither of them understand--“how do I reach you?”

“Professor…” Eye widening, he wants to take a step forward, but he finds himself an iceberg drifting to parts unknown with no land in sight. The space between them widens even without him moving. 

“I have _tried_ ,” she rasps, and she _is_ shaking, her hands grasping at the edge of the table she’s leaning heavily against. “I have _tried_ to help you, but I can’t unless you _let_ me.”

Reaching up, Byleth wipes at something on her face he can’t see, but he’s afraid he knows what it is...and the idea is enough to terrify him. 

“I know it’s unfair of me to ask you to bear this weight on your shoulders--you who have carried so much. I should have been beside you. It is my fault you have suffered so…” 

Shaking his head, he lifts his hand to reach out toward her, but it comes up short and floats in the shallows. “No, Professor, that is not--”

“But even still, you _have to_.” Her fist comes down on the table, bitter and seething resentment laced in her tone. And part of him basks in it, wishes she would speak to him more like this because it’s _deserved_ , and _honest_ , and contains all the hatred toward him that she suppresses because of his status and their relationship--whatever one might call it--and if she could just _scream_ at him, _hit_ him, do _something_. “You know this, and yet you punish yourself. _Why?_ Why must you punish yourself like this?”

_“It is your atonement.”_

_“It is necessary.”_

He pushes the voices back until hers is the only clear thing he can hear. 

“Any burden you bear, I would gladly carry upon my shoulders if that would lessen your pain… But I can’t…You have to be strong until we reach Enbarr...until we defeat Edelgard...and even after that.” But he can’t be strong. He never was strong. He took up responsibility like it was a cloak for him to wear, and when he draped it around his shoulders, he did so to hide the bodies and bloody hands that helped to lighten the burden. But even dead soldiers need payment.

“Dimitri, I… I don’t know how to help you… I don’t… I want to… I…” And the tears begin to fall. He has never seen Byleth cry, but when she turns to face him with that look of exhausted helplessness, his mouth slacks and he can’t ignore the way the image of her in his mind collapses and drops the wooden planks at his feet. He cannot ignore the holes she can’t keep boarding up. 

Her lips tremble, tears falling down her round cheeks as she crosses the distance between them. But that distance is only physical space.

“ _How do I help you?_ ” she gasps, as though grieving for a man that’s still standing in front of her. 

“Professor…” he manages when he finally finds the strength to speak, gathering her wrists into his hands and holding them to his chest. “This burden you speak of… I have carried it since my birth. It is mine. Do not feel sorry for me; do not feel as if you must bear it with me. You have your own responsibilities--to your students, to the church. I cannot ask you to lift any more.” 

She looks up to him as if he wasn’t understanding something, that gap between them wide and hollow. 

“You have done enough. The people of Faerghus owe you their lives. The people of _Fodlan_ owe you their lives. I...” His breath hitches as his fingers tighten their grip and meet each other. Her hands are so small compared to his own, and he blocks out the thought of what little strength it would take to break them. He only thinks that way because of _what_ he is… Lowering his head, he forces a bitter smile and hides beneath the veil of golden hair. “I owe you my life--I, who am unfit and unworthy to stand beside you as I am now.” 

It’s a dreadful sound, what he hears when he finishes speaking his part. He’s heard women cry before, the kind of ugly crying like wyverns screaming as they fall from the sky in midbattle. But nothing compares to this… It’s quiet. Hard to hear. Her inhales are mouse-like squeaks, like she can’t find enough air to properly cry. Green hair falls over her face as she presses her tears against his broad chest, partially exposed by his tunic. He can feel even her hands trembling in his grasp, like a small, wounded animal in shock. 

“Professor…” he chokes out, “why are you still crying _?_ ” 

He wants it to stop. 

“Please...do not… Not for me.” 

He doesn’t want this. Why? Why would she cry? For _him?_

Taking her cheek in one hand, he steps back enough to look at the head he raises, and a familiar, stinging heat nestles into his eye even when his lips twist upward and he tries his best to quell the pain in his face. “These hands, these warm hands so small and fragile in my own, have gently guided me all these years. I do not deserve their touch. I do not deserve your guidance...your kindness.” Shaking his head slowly, he looks to her quivering bottom lip. It’s pale… Looks soft… He remembers similar thoughts from their days at Garreg Mach. His thumb brushes away a tear, and he lets the water smear against her cheek. “I do not deserve these precious tears...” 

The words seem to visibly hurt her, face twisting into something he can’t quite capture, and when she tries to pull away, his hand holds her firm. She has escaped him once; he cannot allow her to do so again.

If he lets go now, how many years will it be until he sees her again? How much more can he lose in that time?

He shakes his head again and presses his forehead against hers. The expression on her face falls, and she remains frozen as he leans toward her, pulled in by that feeling he can’t name. How many times has he imagined this scenario? Time stalls. 

Does he have a right to keep her here..?

“I do not deserve--” he utters as his breath mingles with hers, so close that the slightest of movements would bring their lips together. The curl of green lashes flutters against his cheeks as they fall halfway.

“Dimitri?” Her words are a whispered question condensed into his name. 

He answers it by closing the space between them, responding like a stopped clock finally wound into motion.

It’s short...quick…an ocean spray against the cold sand. But the water is warm, and he lingers because he wants to capture it, keep it, hold it, cherish it--

_“Dimitri. Stop.”_

The dream of his youth dies with the whispers of ghosts past, and he comes away from it without a single drop in his hand with which to prove that it had happened--that this was real, that she might have...

“Professor… I-I apologize. That was… Forgive me, I should not have…” 

Leaning in after him, she shakes her head slowly, eyes heavy with some unreadable emotion. Her lips part as if to speak, but the words are replaced with a long and tremulous sigh. The heat of her breath warms him, begins to thaw the glacier. 

His grip on her hands tighten, and he knows he must turn away. But why can’t he find the strength to? 

It’s her eyes, he realizes. Green irises stand in sharp contrast to the red roses beneath them. They are the sea, deep and rich. The longer he stares, the more the tide of her gaze pulls at him, the more it threatens to sweep him helplessly into their dark abyss. And he doesn’t know what awaits him there, but he wants to drink from their salty depths--surrender to pull and breathe in all she offers even if it drowns him in the process. 

“ _Byleth…_ ” Dimitri’s baritone voice is a hushed whisper against her mouth, a promise--a contract with no words but mutually signed. 

Her hands slip from his own, reaching up to cradle his face as she closes the gap between them. 

Drowning is a peaceful experience, he decides. The waves crest over his head, and he lets them crush him...waits for the indignant cries and the pain. But drowning is a silent affair, and it makes him love it even more. 

He sighs into her, his fingers seeking her bared waist, giving in to the push and pull of her rhythm, melting at the slow draw of her tongue against his lower lip, trembling, pressing her against him as if he’s afraid what low tide might bring. When her fingers thread through his hair to cup the back of his head, when her body arches against him and allows the breath she’s been holding to escape and embrace his sigh, he feels as if her touch is searing through him.

 _This is the ocean in summer_ , he thinks. It’s pleasantly hot. To step from the water's warmth would be a cold and bitter travail. 

With eyes squeezed shut and brows furrowed, he tenses his shoulders and presses harder against her, delves into the warmth of her mouth when she opens for him. The tips of his fingers dip into her waist, and the softness of their embrace slowly deliquesces into liquid fire, replaced with ruthless, nigh deadly fervor.

Dimitri takes a step forward, Byleth a step back. He doesn’t count the steps it takes until they reach the table, until their lips pull away briefly and come again together with the force of stormy waves crashing against a rocky coastside. When her teeth pull at his lip, all the excitement and desire and hunger course through his veins and release in a breathless gasp. 

It’s desperate.

Their lips slot together like he’s holding a key in his trembling hands, like he’s trying to open an ancient lock--fidgeting, bashing together, jiggling. He wants to throw the key aside and break her open with his hands, but she’s already opening herself, breaking the barriers between them with deft fingers that slide inside the loose fabric of his white tunic. 

His breath feels short in his chest, like he’s trying to breathe underwater, and something inside him trembles when he tastes the iron that flows from the tooth-shaped dent in his bottom lip. Some fierce ache, some voice that once screamed _unloved_ like a cacophony of birds on the shore at dusk quiets, recedes as Byleth kisses him. Her touches fill the tide pools of scars etched into his body, and they spill over and reach places that are unfamiliar. When they pull back, they drag him with her, erodes the walls he’s built and allows the images he’s only ever had in his most secret fantasies to pour _ad libitum_ into his hands, grasping at the backs of her thighs, into his arms, lifting her onto the table, into his body, pinning her against Fodlan.

Gasps break the silence in between punctuated swells of their lips. 

Dimitri reaches for her hands, pulling away the one cupping beneath his ear to press her wrist beside her head and against the parchments strewn beneath them. He slips his thumb under the hem of her black shirt, tracing her heaving ribcage as if to confirm that she too feels as breathless as he does. The thighs that press on either side of his hips pull him closer, bodies flushed together like warm sea and cold rain but they’re one and the same and somewhere out there that sweet symphony of the night crescendos and he never wants this to end and everything is _perfect_. 

And it’s why Dimitri pulls away. 

_Freezing_. He is the lonely beach before the break of dawn. The sands of his body are engraved with the aftermath of the tide, and stubbornly he tries not to drink up too much of the warmth he’s captured in the small pools of memory. 

Hovering over her, Dimitri stares down into the green sea. He revels in the bright shade beneath them that has spread from her cheeks to where the collar of her shirt meets the small of her throat. Reaching out, he tucks away a verdant strand that had stuck to her temple. The green sea rolls in tumults of emotion--emotions he has never before seen reflected in her countenance, and he commits this image to memory because _surely_ a sinking ship cannot love the sea. 

_“Is this love?”_

Dimitri doesn’t know. He knows love only by the sound of its name. It’s a story Ashe would tell, he thinks. It is an idea that's been sealed away from him like some secret in an ancient fable, waiting for a starry-eyed boy with no future to discover and become enamoured with. 

If someone were to paint a canvas with crimson waves, crowned the crests of water with the bones of old ghosts, and said “ _That is the sea, and this is love_ ,” he would believe it and say “ _Yes, that_ **_is_ ** _love. And that **is** the sea. And it is **beautiful.**_ **”**

He draws a gentle line down her cheek with his thumb and pulls away to rest his hand over Enbarr. His other hand, slipping away from Byleth’s wrist, settles on Fhirdiad. And Byleth, staring with those eyes filled with those emotions, takes up the space between the two--fills Fodlan and links the two cities through him when she presses her fingers against the slope of his jaw. She smiles. He gives into her touch without a second thought, and she pulls him down to her to press her kiss-swollen lips against his forehead. 

Retreating, Byleth runs the backs of her forefingers from his temples to the sensitive space beneath his ears and repeats. There’s nothing said between them, and the patient understanding Dimitri recognizes on the face beneath him confirms that there is nothing that needs to be said.

And they stay like this for a while, foreheads resting against each other. Dimitri breathes in the scent of the sea, a fragrance with no other name but _Byleth._

 _Byleth_ , his heart cries when he feels her own beating through the fabric between them and against his chest--the steady beating of lowtide against the shore. 

_Byleth_ , his mind cries when he imagines the future beyond Enbarr. Beyond Edelgard. Beyond war and titles and crowns.

 _Byleth,_ his body cries when he dips his head to draw the salty flavor from her lips one final time--tentative and slow. 

Golden strands feather over the pale face beneath, a curtain to shield from the trivialities of the world. And his soul cries _Byleth_ because she is the only thing it sees.

The glacier melts into an emerald sea. Its tip meets the far-off horizon, collapsing willingly into the waves that have battered at ice walls relentlessly across the ages of time. 

_“This is the sea. Its waves will guide me. I swear to Sothis that this is the sea. This is what love is.”_

“It’s late.” She repeats that fact against his lips quietly, without suggestion.

“Yes. It is.” Those lips curve into a small smile. 

He takes a step back, offering her a hand that she in turn takes. Pressing the cap over the candlestick, he puts out the final light in the camp, takes up Adreadbhar, and then follows Byleth to the world that awaits them outside the tent. When they finally part, Byleth slipping into her own tent and leaving Dimitri in the empty pathway, the crickets are still playing--alone. The trees have stilled; even the wolves have turned in, sleeping lazily in their dens as they too listen to the strings of twilight. 

He smiles at the azure moon shyly gazing back behind the blanket of the cloudy night, and then he follows its light to his own tent where he will close his eyes and dream of the sea.


End file.
